


It's Only A Paper Moon

by whittackers



Series: Make-believe [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Background Combeferre/Courfeyrac, Depression, Established Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 16:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12821505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whittackers/pseuds/whittackers
Summary: Grantaire goes to sleep one night, drunk, depressed, and hopeless. He wakes up married, successful, and in love, with no memory of how it's happened.Unfortunately, Grantaire’s brain won’t accept nice things happening to him.





	It's Only A Paper Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授翻】It's Only A Paper Moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14114388) by [AchiShaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AchiShaw/pseuds/AchiShaw)



> _Say it's only a paper moon,_   
>  _Sailing over a cardboard sea,_   
>  _But it wouldn't be make-believe_   
>  _If you believed in me._

Grantaire took another drink straight from the bottle. He had started the evening pleasantly enough, a bottle of wine and the soft afternoon light accompanying him as he worked on one of his paintings.

It was much later now and the wine was gone. He had moved on to vodka and the room had fallen dark, but there was enough light from streetlamps coming in that he could still see what he was working on, and it was unbearable. The painting mocked him from its place on the easel, with that particular sneering that only abstract works were capable of. It was worthless; he was worthless. He didn’t deserve to be called an artist. Definitely didn’t deserve to be accepted into his University’s art program.

He could see distantly that that was what had triggered this, being due to start tomorrow, but knowing that did nothing against the feeling of crushing self-hatred that was weighing down his chest.

He needed to be out. Somewhere crowded. To be around people that could breathe some life back into him, but it was too late and he was too drunk to go out now. Instead he settled for more vodka, moving gracelessly towards his kitchen to find another bottle, glancing back once more at his artwork while he searched. Grantaire couldn’t stand the painting’s sneer any longer. He wanted to burn it, but with the amount of alcohol around he could see that was a bad idea.

Still, there was more than one way to destroy a canvas. He stumbled over, his feet catching on the bare floor as he felt himself start to fall. His head slammed against the counter on his way down, and he hit the floor hard.

“Ouch” he muttered, not bothering to try to get up. “Fuck” he said, before letting himself slip into unconsciousness, away from the pain.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up feeling better than he has in a really long time. Better than he can ever remember feeling, really. He doesn’t have many good days, but even his best ones haven’t been like this. To be fair he also feels terrible. His body is sore all over and he has a headache that’s working on splitting his head open, but the ever-present emptiness that has been haunting him just isn’t there. He casts a look around the room, and figures it out. He must be dead.

He must be, because there is an actual Angel sitting beside him, holding his hand.

“Mon Ange…” The words slip out of him, his brain fighting a haziness that is focusing less on the distressing fact of his demise and more on the feeling of peace that settles over him just looking at this Being. He doesn’t have long to think about it because when their eyes meet the Angel surges forward and kisses him. It’s barely more than a press of their lips together, but it fills his chest with warmth.

“Don’t ever do that again, R.” His tone could have been menacing if it wasn’t for the infinite gentleness in the way he is cupping Grantaire’s cheek, his other hand still holding his own.

“OK…” Grantaire whispers, unwilling to deny him anything despite not knowing what he was talking about, or how he had attracted the interest of a deity; he must have drank a lot more than he thought last night. His voice comes out thick with disuse and the Angel offers him some water that he eagerly accepts.

The mundane aspects of the room eventually creep into his consciousness - the bright white lights and crinkle of sheets against his skin, the IV poking at his arm, and the clearing influence of the pain throughout his body - that convince him he’s in hospital, not actually dead. They still don’t explain the Angel’s presence though. It could be he's on some seriously excellent drugs.

“How are you feeling?”

“Excellent,” he replies honestly, receiving only an eye roll in return, which he can understand when he imagines what he looks like. From what he can see of his uncovered skin, it's coloured in bruises and his right arm is held in a sling. He probably looks like shit.

“I’m going to call Joly.” The Angel says as he pulls out his phone, his other hand not leaving Grantaire’s. He hears the line connect before the first ring has finished. “Joly, he’s awake.” The Angel says into the phone, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. The Angel - and as the fogginess in Grantaire’s brain continues to clear he feels a bit ridiculous still using the term, even though it's fitting - hangs up without saying goodbye.

“Who’s Joly?” Grantaire asks, and the smile slips off the other man’s face like the last ray of sunlight after dusk.

“What?” he sputters, as a frantic stranger rushes into the room.

“Hey R, welcome back!” he sounds slightly out of breath but the smile on his face is huge and sincere. “Enjolras?” The stranger's smile disappears as he looks over at Grantaire’s Angel – whose name must be Enjolras? – and sees the terror on his face.

“Joly, something’s wrong.”

“You do know I’m not actually his doctor right?” Joly says back, though it doesn’t stop him from examining Grantaire. “How are you feeling, R?” he says, shining a light into his eyes.

“You know I don’t trust the other doctors.” Enjolras mutters under his breath, his hand gripping Grantaire’s almost painfully as Joly examines him.

“I feel fine. A little sore, but definitely not the worst morning after I’ve ever experienced.” Grantaire jokes, trying to lighten the mood, but the other two don’t drop their serious faces as they stare at him, and he starts to feel uneasy for the first time since waking.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing too serious that I can see. Enjolras?”

“R, do you know Joly?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire feels overwhelmed, sensing he’s missing something huge. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything.

“It’s OK, Grantaire,” Joly says kindly, but he can sense a change in his tone, “Do you know where you are?"

“The hospital, I assume.”

“And can you tell me what year it is?”

“2011.” He answers, barely catching the flinch that flickers across Joly’s face. Enjolras’s face is etched with panic, and Grantaire feels cold all over, as he senses that was definitely not the right answer.

“What’s the last thing you can remember?” Joly quickly recovers, his tone bright and unconcerned and false. 

Grantaire doesn’t want to think about last night. He says only “I was painting in my apartment, and I fell.”

“Well, that doesn’t really narrow it down.” Joly smiles at him, and Grantaire thinks this Joly must know him at least a little, and it’s deeply unsettling to be known by someone he has no recollection of.

“I’m going to page a neuro consult. And your actual doctor.” Joly adds, seemingly as an afterthought, “I’m only an intern here. I'm also one of your best friends.” Joly gives him a little wave.

"Oh. Cool." Grantaire lets his eyelids fall closed. “So what year is it?” It comes out as a whisper.

“2017. Six years,” Enjolras finally speaks, “R, do you know me?”

Grantaire eventually shakes his head. Their hands are still linked together, and Grantaire is relieved he hasn’t pulled away. The other man looks down then as though he has just noticed this too, and Grantaire’s fingers tighten fractionally.

Enjolras doesn't pull away though, and eventually Grantaire is brave enough to ask “So, who are you?”

“R!!”

They are interrupted as a man and woman run into the room and tackle Grantaire in a hug.

The man slips on his way over and jostles Grantaire’s sling, causing a jolt of pain to run up his arm, and Grantaire hisses in pain.

“So I may have texted some people. The others are on their way.” Joly explains as Enjolras glares at him, and the newcomer lets out a string of apologies as Grantaire tries to mask his pain.

“Bossuet?” Grantaire finally recognises him, beneath six years and significantly less hair, and can’t help smiling. He's known Bossuet since high school, and he's one of the few friends Grantaire has that he actually likes. They’re supposed to meet up tomorrow to check out the university, only apparently tomorrow is six years ago.

“Grantaire? Old chap, it’s been too long,” Bossuet ruffles his hair in jest.

“Grantaire can’t remember anything from the last six years.” Joly cuts in.

“Seriously?"

Grantaire confirms it, his voice coming out much more confident than he feels.

"But that’s the only thing wrong, right? You’re going to be OK?”

“His injuries aren’t likely to incur complications,” Joly replies, skimming through Grantaire’s chart.

“Six years, wow." He glances quickly at the people in the room. "So I’m the only one you remember?” Bossuet asks.

"Technically…"

“Okaayyyy" Bossuet looks like he's struggling to make light of that. He injects as much cheer into his tone as he can when he says "So I get to introduce everybody. This here is Musichetta, the love of my life.” He indicates the woman he had entered with, who gives a small wave from where she's curled up at the end of the bed. “This is Joly, who you’ve met, the other love of my life.”

“Your luck obviously turned around.” Grantaire comments earnestly.

Bossuet beams back at him and finishes with “And that’s Enjolras. You really don't remember him?”

Grantaire’s actual doctor shows up then and makes everyone except Enjolras leave. Her diagnosis isn’t any more helpful than Joly’s, but she schedules more tests and a strict PT regimen, and sensing it will be a problem, limits his visitor allowance, before leaving them alone.

There is an awkward silence between them, before Grantaire finally breaks it, saying “So, I never did find out who you are? Why did you stay?" Not that I’m complaining, he wants to add.

“I’m... Enjolras.”

“Enjolras” Grantaire echoes back, the first time he’s said it out loud. It feels unfamiliar on his tongue. “I had gathered that.” He looks down while he speaks, feeling himself blush. He is always so painfully shy whilst sober, a rare enough occurrence these days. “I need a drink” he mumbles. Grantaire doesn't miss the grimace that crosses Enjolras’ face at that.  
Trying to get far away from that subject, Grantaire asks “How did I get injured?”

“We were at a protest-”

“-A protest? That doesn’t sound like me.”

Enjolras gives him a sad smile before continuing, “It turned badly and we got separated. I didn’t see how it happened but they said you fell down some stairs and ended up hitting your head.”

“What were we protesting?”

“Well… uh… the usual things.”

Grantaire scoffs at that, and Enjolras smiles at him. "I don't want to upset you."

"I take it the world's continued to go to shit?"

As he says it Enjolras looks sad again, and Grantaire needs to stop doing that. He already hates being the cause of that look. He changes the subject again.

"Do you know what's happened to me? For the past six years I mean.” His voice catches on the number.

“Well, that was about the time we met, in your first year of University. You graduated three years ago and opened your own gallery, which you operate currently.”

"I opened… Sorry, uh, we might have to go back to that, but I meant… We’re…" He thinks of the kiss when he woke up, but shoves down the spark that's lit up his abdomen, "...friends then?"

“No. You’re my husband.”

The silence hangs heavy for a moment before Grantaire finally responds, saying “Gay marriage will never be legal in this country." And then, "Wait. What?"

"We've been married for two years now, and I guess I have a lot to fill you in on. Politically they've been some… interesting years."

Slowly, painfully, he withdraws his hand from Enjolras’ and curls it up across his stomach. "I don't believe you."

Enjolras looks taken aback, seemingly lost for words.

“I’m sorry, but that’s impossible. There’s been some kind of mistake.” His hand feels cold.

“This whole thing is a mistake, I never should have lost sight of you,” The control Enjolras has been exerting over his emotions starts to slip away, his voice growing. “The past six years, our life together, that’s not a mistake.”

He breaks off then and takes a few breaths, before speaking again, “I’m sorry. This must be even harder for you. But this isn’t a mistake. I’m your husband, and I love you, and I'm here for whatever you need.”

A nurse shows up then to take Grantaire for more tests, breaking the tension between them, and Grantaire is wheeled away leaving Enjolras behind.

* * *

 

It’s a few days before Grantaire is discharged. Enjolras is there for nearly all of that time, usually accompanied by at least one other person, but no one but Bossuet is ever familiar to him. They all assure him that they’re friends, but everyone he meets is so lovely Grantaire has a hard time believing it. He passes the time going for test after test and sleeping way too much. Worst of all, Enjolras is always there. His hand seeking his out, seemingly instinctually, and it feels so good, but also not _right_. Whatever person Enjolras is in love with it isn’t _him_.

They get a cab home from the hospital, Enjolras leading him to what he says is their apartment, hanging his keys on a hook just inside the door as he goes. That’s the first thing Grantaire notices: that his apparent home is one organised enough to have a designated key hook. The second thing he notices is the hallway, which seems to go on and on and on. Enjolras leads him down it, pointing out the bedroom, bathroom, and guest room as Grantaire follows and counts the steps: 19, before they reach the end and walk through an open door.

Grantaire lives - lived - in a one room apartment, as rundown as it was small. Nothing could be more discordant to this place: tall ceilings and open space, floor to ceiling windows letting in the afternoon light. Lined up across the length of the room is a wooden table, intricately carved and covered in papers, and Grantaire studies it as Enjolras walks across the room, speaking as he moves.

“I invited our friends over tonight, to welcome you home. But I can cancel if you’re feeling too tired,” he adds on thoughtfully, but doubtfully, as he heads for the end of the table and flicks through some of the papers.

Grantaire is struck by those words: that he hasn’t changed so much in the last six years that he'd still want to be around people at a time like this, and that Enjolras is someone who knows this about him: has bothered to learn him. It leaves him breathless for a moment, before he manages to murmur a “That’s fine.”

Enjolras looks at him and smiles, and Grantaire slinks into one of the table’s chairs, knees weak. He lets his head fall to the table, his hands tracing the wooden carvings absentmindedly.

"A wedding present." Enjolras says when he notices, "Our friend Feuilly made it. It's amazing, isn't it? You two used to carve together. Here…" Enjolras wanders the room, seemingly searching for something. He picks up a spiral bound book from the breakfast bar. "This should help with some things," he says, handing it to Grantaire, who takes the book and sees a picture of himself smiling on the cover. Enjolras flips it open a few pages and points to another picture captioned 'Feuilly - Friend' with a brief description beneath it. Grantaire flips through the rest of the pages quickly, getting the gist of it. There's even an index in the back. He stares at Enjolras, disbelieving.

"I thought you might find it helpful, that's all."

"When did you even have time to do this?"

"I had to do something while you slept."

Grantaire can sense something off as he says that, but he doesn't mention it.

"I had Courf print it at the office and drop it off."

He recognises that name from the hospital, and flips to the entry labelled Courfeyrac - Friend. His description reads only "Greatest Person You Know" and his photo is outlined in glitter.

Enjolras looks down at it and mutters "I'm going to kill him," but Grantaire can't help but smile, flipping through the other friend entries. Despite the hospital visits he's still shaken by how many there are. He seems to have met most of them at University, according to Enjolras's coding system.

Grantaire excuses himself as Enjolras clears away papers, heading for the bathroom.

He stares at his face in the mirror and tries to remove the sick grin that's stuck there. He can't really say what's making him so uncomfortable. It could be a reasonable reaction to waking up to an entirely new life, but Grantaire can't say for sure. He knows reasonable emotional responses are not his thing.

He studies his reflection instead, searching for what's new. The swelling has gone down enough now that he can properly recognise himself, but it's still at odds to what he's expecting. He's still there, under six years of aging and some ugly bruises. He looks older, but there's something younger about him too; he doesn’t look as wrecked. He checks his body for new scars next. There's nothing major, just little additions, and he wonders if he'll ever know the stories behind them.

He takes a shower, eager to get rid of the smell of hospital, and then finds the way to the bedroom closet, unsure which clothes are his and which are Enjolras's; there doesn't seem to be any recognisable difference, but eventually he manages to find a t-shirt that will fit him and his favourite pair of jeans, still kicking, before carefully replacing his sling.

The hospital gave him a bag with everything he had on him at the time of the accident. He puts aside the wallet and annihilated phone and takes out the gold wedding band, rubbing his finger along the edge, contemplating. Enjolras is still wearing his, and at a certain point it's got to be insulting to keep insisting you can't be married to someone, but wearing it feels like admitting something Grantaire really isn't ready to. He tucks it into his wallet instead and heads back to the main room, where Enjolras has cleared the papers away and is seated at the table, waiting for him. It's a formidable sight. Grantaire doesn't know what Enjolras does for work yet but he thinks he would make an effective School Principal. He figures he might as well start there. "Enjolras, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a lawyer."

That would work too. Grantaire bravely sits next to him.

"So I've spoken with Eponine and she's agreed to keep looking after the gallery for as long as you need. You can speak with her more about it, she'll be at the party tonight, as I'm afraid I don't really know much about what needs to be done there."

"Enjolras."

"Other than that I should be able to help with anything else. I haven't even shown you around the apartment, sorry. Do you want to do that now? I mean I think you've seen most of it-"

"Enjolras. Stop. What is going on?"

"With what? Are you confused about something? The doctors warned me this could happen. Is your vision blurry? Can you feel all your limbs?"

"What? No, I feel fine. I mean with all this. What is all this?" He gestures to the room, but means it all. The apartment, the gallery, himself. Enjolras. "I was barely scraping by in life. I was skating the poverty line. What happened?"

"Well, I mean, it didn't happen all at once. It's been a long six years, for both of us, for everyone really, but you're talented and you put in the work."

"See, that's not-. I'm not like that. I don't know who you're expecting me to be. Because whoever you think I am- I'm not the person who can hold down a steady job, or can get out of bed everyday,  or remember to eat, or do my taxes, or be someone's husband, and have someone depend on me. I feel like I've been dropped into a play, and everyone's looking at me, waiting for me to say my lines, but I don't know them, and I don't even know what character I'm playing. And I can't be that person, I can only be me, but 'me' doesn't fit into the scene, and the play will be ruined, and we'll get terrible reviews and the theatre will have to be closed down, and everyone will lose their jobs. Well, that's not what I mean. I just mean, I have to remember Icarus, because we were both idiots, and lesser sons, and I never wanted to let expectations melt my wings off. I'm afraid of heights. And you probably already know that. You probably know most things about me, or you think you do, things I don't know about you, but your hair is really shiny, and you feel like sunshine, and when you talk to people, when you really talk, and not just asking how long this procedure is going to take or asking if I need anything - which is very thoughtful, and kind, by the way - it's like the whole room lights up and heats up and everything stops. But that's you, and then there's me. The real me. Not the future me. And people like me don't get this lucky. And people like you don't-" He cuts himself off.

  
"People like me don't what?" Enjolras had watched him with a glint of amusement in his eye, but now he looks at him with an intensity Grantaire doesn't think he can handle. "Maybe it's a little early to be making assumptions about me."

"You're right. I don't know you."

What he really means is you don't know me, so stop looking at me like I hang the moon. Enjolras doesn't stop though. He sits staring Grantaire down, and Grantaire stares back.

The doorbell rings. Neither he nor Enjolras move but it doesn't matter as they hear the door open and booming footsteps down the hall, before a great hulking man appears.

"That key was for emergencies."

"Don't get mad at me; you've been keeping all the R cuddles to yourself. Sorry I couldn't visit in the hospital, bro. I'm Bahorel." Grantaire gets up and makes a mental note to look him up in Enjolras's directory, before he's being swamped by the other man. Careful to shelter his injured arm, Bahorel grips him into a crushing hug, and Grantaire thinks it might be the best he's ever received.

Eventually, he releases him and says "So I've been doing some research," Bahorel walks over to the couch while talking, and Grantaire follows, all too willing to distance himself from his fight with Enjolras.

Bahorel keeps talking, "Apparently smell is one of the strongest triggers of memory, and I thought, what would ever be smellier than that part of first year where you dragged us to try out every sport the university offered?"

Enjolras makes a spluttering sound from where he's hovering at the end of the couch. "Uh, yes. I remember that." He says, and goes red, before asking Bahorel "That was when you first started wrestling, wasn't it?"

"A lucky consequence, that hardly made up for all the awful rugby, ugh and sailing, guys we met. Anyway, smell this."

He hands Grantaire a towel that he obediently lifts to his nose, then greatly regrets.

"Uck,"

"I got the guys to wipe down after practise today. Remember anything?"

"No."

"Ah well, it was worth a shot."

Grantaire disagrees, but he keeps his mouth shut. It seems like this man's intentions were in the right place.

"Another thing I thought we could try is triggering muscle memory. I'm guessing you're probably still too bruised up for anything rough, but apparently it can be enough just to watch someone else. You could watch me wrestle Enjolras?"

"If you think it could help." Grantaire says, magnanimously.

"Uh sure, OK." Enjolras says, "I'd be willing to try."

Bahorel grins at him, and Grantaire tries to grin back, but the tension from before still sits in his gut and makes it feel false.

The doorbell ringing rescues Enjolras, who gets up to answer it. He doesn't have to go very far because the new guest lets themselves in as well. Grantaire recognises Jehan, the name being easier to remember than most of his hospital visitors, carrying a squirming cat in both arms.

"Hello, friends! R, how are you feeling?"

"Fine. I'm fine. What's with the cat?"

"Enjolras didn't tell you? He's yours, I was just cat sitting."

Enjolras takes the cat and hugs it against his face, and that image instantly becomes the cutest thing Grantaire's ever seen in his life, before he lets it jump to the ground.

"Sorry, I didn't get that far yet. That was Eros," Enjolras says as the cat runs out of the room. "He loves us dearly, deep down."

The rest of the guests arrive quickly after that, and Grantaire tries to keep everyone straight in his head. He wishes he had studied Enjolras's book harder before. A few more people bring things; he ends up with a printed out and stapled set of memes from the last six years from Bossuet, and a bouquet of forget-me-nots from Eponine. Someone puts some music on, as the party continues everyone starts acting more familiar and less like strangers, and Grantaire feels his spirits lift. Before long he's laughing hard enough to hurt his bruised ribs, and he can forget he's essentially in a crowd of near-strangers, while sober.

He hasn't missed the fact there's no alcohol at this party.

Eponine eventually updates him on the state of the gallery, something Grantaire doesn't think he'll ever believe is real.

"You can come by anytime, or call me and I'll send someone to bring you."

"Unfortunately my phone's even more banged up than I am," he sighs, and Eponine pats the top of his head in condescension.

Musichetta pipes in at that, offering to fix it for him. "I decided to learn after Bossuet wrecked his fifth one."

"Only two of those were my fault."

The conversation inevitably swings back to his missing memories, where Courfeyrac, who Grantaire has so far discerned works as a lawyer with Enjolras and is one of the most cheerful people he's ever met, has the bright idea to help trigger Grantaire's memories by re-enacting key events in their friendship.

"I'd like to present: our first meeting."

The sound of titters fills the room, but Courfeyrac ignores them.

"I will play myself, obviously. Who wants to be R?"

"Can't I be?" Grantaire asks, not keen to see anyone's impressions of him.

"You don't know your lines," Courfeyrac sighs, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I can improvise. I did improv in high school."

"That's how we met!" Bossuet chimes in with.

"This is my Grantaire story, not yours!" Courfeyrac continues, "Actually, I will play the both of us, I'll be better at it."

Grantaire doesn't like where this is going.

Courfeyrac steps up on the coffee table, and shushes everyone. "The year is 2011, the world is still reeling from the LOST finale, and a certain ruffian is about to begin his first year at University. I'm strolling down Main Avenue one day, and have to make a quick getaway from a crowd of adoring fans,"

There are shouts throughout the room, but Courfeyrac speaks over them, "and I'm jumping roof to roof on cars on the road, to escape."

Bahorel stands up. "I will play the angry car,"

Courfeyrac dutifully flings himself onto Bahorel's back, and they manage to knock down a photo frame, before climbing back up again.

"Anyway, as I'm running, I run straight into Grantaire, and seeing the danger I'm in and not missing a beat, he pulls us to escape through a door I had never even noticed before, and I'd been at the University for a year already, while you were just a tiny freshman. Then you said, 'Good sir, I have managed to save you from mortal peril, you now owe me a life debt.'"

"Is that a Texan accent?"

"Shut up,"

Courfeyrac continues.

"And I conceded, 'You who have saved me, with your handsome face and strong arms, please let me buy you a drink.' And you said, 'that's almost as good, I guess.' And so we go to the Corinthe, and we drink to your bravery." Courfeyrac holds up his glass, and everyone does the same, taking a drink, and Grantaire can hardly believe that all these people are stone cold sober. "So then, I notice the time, and I'm like, 'Oh Shit. I have a meeting to go to. Would you like to accompany me?' And so we go to the Les Amis meeting. Boom. Friends Forever. The End."

He bows to the sound of scattered applause.

"You know, I don't think you're supposed to lie to someone with memory loss."

"It wasn't a lie, it was a dramatic re-enactment. Based on 100% truth. Who's next?"

Grantaire groans, and everyone squabbles.

"Ooh, we should do those months of pining before you and Enjolras finally got your shit together. I call Enjolras," Musichetta begins. "Wait never mind, I can't get my eyes to turn that literal heart shape."

"Let me try."

"No, no it was more like this."

The room seems to dissolve into a flurry of wide eyed staring, kissing noises and quiet brooding. It's not hard to imagine himself pining after Enjolras, but it's impossible to picture Enjolras doing the same. Across the room, he sees Enjolras smiling at them, but there's something behind his eyes Grantaire can't discern. He wants to see into his brain and  learn what he's feeling, remember what it is that makes him look that way.  
"Of course we'd love to demonstrate your wedding, except none of us were there!!!!" Courfeyrac whines.

"I was there!" Combeferre pipes in from across the room.

"And thank you for rubbing that in my face once again."

"Well, don’t look at me, I know nothing about it." Grantaire adds.

He lets their laughter surround him, wraps himself up in it, and holds onto the happiness gathering within him, hoping that this is part of his new life he'll get to keep.

 

Eventually everyone makes their excuses and the party dwindles down to just him and Enjolras, and a very asleep Jehan curled up on the couch against his shoulder.

"You should probably get some rest." Enjolras says, although it's the last thing Grantaire wants to do. He's slept enough.

"Don't worry, Jehan can sleep through anything. That kid has a sleep schedule no human should." He gently disentangles himself while Enjolras pulls out a pillow and blanket and tucks it around Jehan, then follows Enjolras to the bedroom, trying not to let his nerves show. They haven't talked about sleeping arrangements, or the state of their marriage at all yet, and Grantaire really isn't ready to deal with that right now.

"If you want, I can sleep in the guestroom tonight. I know this must be strange for you." Enjolras says, seemingly reading his thoughts.

"I think that might be best." He replies, regretting the words even as he says them.

"All right. You know where the bathroom is, your toothbrush is the purple one. Let me know if you need anything else." Enjolras takes some pyjamas for himself and says good night before heading for the door, their bodies never less than a bed-length from each other.

"Enjolras?"

"Yes?"

Grantaire pauses, and Enjolras waits.

"Why did I quit drinking?" He's not sure that's what he meant to ask, but that thought's been niggling at him all night. He hasn't been able to stop imagining what horrible thing he must have done to push him over that edge, but Enjolras only shrugs.

"It's been four years since you quit. I don't know what it was, but I don't think it was anything major. But if you want to talk about it, or if you feel like starting again-"

"It's fine." Grantaire knows he sounds terse, but his mind is tripping over four years, not knowing why it feels significant. 

"Goodnight, Enjolras." It sounds like a dismissal, and in a way it is; being alone with him is both terrifying and exhilarating, and Grantaire is determined to uncover the truth to his past before he gets any more attached. Enjolras glances at him once more before he leaves for the guest room.

Instead of trying to sleep he looks over the book Enjolras made him. Out of curiosity he flips to the index and tries to find a category for enemies but either Enjolras hasn't been that thorough or he really has changed unrecognisably over the last six years. He's still too scared to really read through it, even after having met everyone at the party and seeing that they really do care for him. Instead he lays down and tries to think of nothing at all, until he falls into a fitful sleep.

It seems like he's just managed it when a soft and hairy mess charges into him, then settles on his belly. As it's only a little past four a.m., Grantaire pets the cat absentmindedly before allowing himself to slip back into sleep. He only gets another couple hours before he eventually gives up and goes to search for coffee. As he heads down the hall he can hear the voices of Enjolras and Jehan, already awake, and he strains to catch their words.

“I don't know… it could … He keeps calling me Enjolras.” He sounds so distressed at this that Grantaire makes a mental note to find out what that's about.

"Good morning," Grantaire says when he enters the room. Enjolras jumps up from where he sits at the breakfast bar, and starts to head over to him, before heading into the kitchen instead.

"Morning, R," Jehan says back.

"Good morning! Jehan is making us pancakes!" Enjolras says, returning with a cup of coffee for Grantaire as they both sit down at the breakfast bar and watch Jehan cook, pouring out batter in the shape of a giraffe. On the plate beside the stove he can see there's already one in the shape of an 'E', a heart, and a skull, and more beneath that. Grantaire watches, amazed.

"Did you sleep OK?" Enjolras asks, taking a sip of his own coffee.

"Fine, thank you." Grantaire replies politely, before there's silence between them once more. Luckily the giraffe is Jehan's last creation. Enjolras grabs plates and cutlery and syrup, but as Grantaire still hasn't stepped foot in the kitchen and knows where nothing is, he follows Jehan, carrying the food to the table.

Grantaire takes a bat shaped pancake when they're all seated, and they talk easily while they eat. It's nice. He imagines they probably do this often: have friends stay over. Imagines Enjolras and himself hosting breakfasts and brunches and dinner parties and sleepovers. If there's one thing he and Enjolras seem to agree on so far, it's how much they  their care their friends.

Eventually though, Jehan asks what they plan to do today and Grantaire starts to panic.

"I thought I might explore some of the city, then go check out the gallery."

"Would you like me to come with you?" Enjolras asks.

"Uh, that's OK. I think I'd better go alone, get a feel for the city again. Thanks, though."

"Oh. OK. That's fine. I should probably go to the office anyway. You can borrow my phone for the day, just in case."

Grantaire nods acquiescence, and doesn't speak again until Jehan gets up to leave, providing long hugs to both of them when saying good bye.

Enjolras takes a shower, leaving Grantaire to wander the apartment. He looks in to the kitchen, before checking the other doors that lead off the living space. There's a storage cupboard and study, and another toilet, in addition to the spare room at the end of the hall, which is complete with twin sets of double bunk beds. One of its walls is covered in chalkboard paint and scrawled in messages and drawings. There's some mildly disturbing poetry in the corner, as well as an abundance of cute drawings and vulgar messages. Grantaire studies them while waiting for Enjolras to finish showering.

He showers next and when he comes out Enjolras is in a suit; he feels his knees go weak and hopes he can pass it off as his injuries, letting himself sink down onto the edge of the bed.

"Here," Enjolras says handing over his phone. "I took the passcode off for you, please don't tell Courfeyrac.  The number of my office is programmed under Work. You can also call Courf, Bossuet, or Marius, I'll probably be around one of them, or the house if I'm not there. Your keys are by the door, and I left you some cash. Also your pin is 6354 for the silver card in your wallet if you need more, and I topped up your metro card. Did I forget anything?"

"I'll be fine," Grantaire reaches for his hand, and it's the most contact they've had since leaving the hospital, but feeling overwhelmed by Enjolras's thoughtfulness he had reached out instinctively. "Thank you." He lets his hand fall, but the smile stays on Enjolras's face, and they stand there quietly for a moment.

"I better head off," Enjolras says, but he turns back before he reaches the door. "Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?"

Grantaire imagines letting Enjolras show him around the city. Grantaire taking him to his favourite haunts and seeing how they've changed. Enjolras pointing out places they've been together. The two of them walking hand in hand and rediscovering the memories they've shared with each other. It's a nice thought.

But ultimately a terrible idea.

"I've got to do this on my own, sorry."

Grantaire's not sure if he imagines Enjolras's face fall, as his smile doesn't drop. "That's fine. Don't-, don't worry about it. I'll see you soon." he says, and walks out. Grantaire hears the front door click shut a moment later, and for the first time since the accident he is alone.

It's something he's been dreading: that when he's by himself again his brain's façade of peacefulness will fall away and he'll be back to feeling the way he used to.

But he feels the same.

He gets dressed, makes another cup of coffee, and continues looking through the apartment, opening random doors and cupboards and examining the art and pictures on the wall, all the while waiting, waiting, waiting, for his heart to drop. But there's nothing. He feels fine. He smiles to himself and gathers his things, heading out into the city.

The area he's in is nicer than where he used to frequent but he finds his way to the station without difficulty. He's pleased to find the train is nicer and faster than the ones he's used to, a bit amazed that the metro has made any improvements in the last six years.

He stops by  his favourite café, and is crushed to find it's changed owners, so he doesn't bother entering. He rambles the neighbourhood for a while, but he can't put off heading to the gallery for long.

He walks to the address Eponine gave him, on the edge of the city. There's a park opposite the building, and a few tourists milling about, and Grantaire ducks inside before he can talk himself out of it. A girl at the desk welcomes him. He doesn't recognise her, unsurprisingly, and he pays the (voluntary) five euro entry fee rather than explain, picks up a brochure and heads into one of the rooms off the main chamber before she has a chance to start a conversation.

There's art on the walls that doesn't seem like his style, but, he concedes, he likes it well enough. Examining the description on the wall reveals it's not his; each month they showcase different local artists. He flicks through the brochure to find a directory. There's another floor upstairs that keeps his own art - permanent installations, and another short-term gallery off the one he's in that displays his transitory works: recent commissions, inspirations, pieces available for sale. He heads there first, and is hit with a wall of colour. Everything is brighter than he would usually paint in, but he can recognise his style underneath, though probably better than anything he's done before. There's a mix of abstract and realistic work, and a couple sculptures, and he tries not to focus on any of it.

He reads the descriptions instead, and has to sit down when he sees the price they're supposedly selling for. Luckily there's a chair in the corner.

"Excuse me, sir. Please don't sit on the art."

It had looked plain enough. Grantaire's ashamed to think he's become so pretentious to call this art, but when he looks up he sees Eponine, who's grinning at him.

"Kidding." she sing-songs, pulling him out of the chair and nudging his shoulder. "So, what do you think?"

"I think I need to get out of here."

Eponine sighs. "Fine. Let's go get coffee."

She takes him by the hand and practically drags him out of the gallery to the café across the street, steering him to an outdoor table.

"I'll order." She heads inside whilst Grantaire stares, unseeing, at the table in front of him.

"It is pretty amazing, right?" She says when she comes back, nudging him again and sitting down in the seat opposite.

"It's unbelievable. Like, literally unbelievable."

Eponine grins at him. "You've been saying that since we opened."

"Eponine," Grantaire whispers, "what's going on? Is this a front for something? Drugs? Tax evasion? Enjolras's revolution?"

She kicks him underneath the table, but is still grinning.

"Dude, when are you just going to accept that you're an artistic genius."

"When I become a different person," Grantaire sighs, "which, apparently, I already have."

"Well, you sound the same to me. Still spewing the same old crap. You've always been a victim of imposter syndrome, for as long as I've known you, if it helps to know." Eponine says, and waves over their drinks.

The waitress sets down two ridiculous concoctions of towering whipped cream and red sugar, sliding one over to Grantaire.

"I wouldn't really drink this, would I?"

"Try it and see." Eponine is possibly the most inscrutable person he's ever met. Though they've only had two conversations, he still can't tell when she's being earnest and when she's bullshitting him. Part of him wonders if he's ever been able to. He studies her expression as he leans forward and takes a sip.

It's so disgustingly sweet he lets out a noise of disgust.

Eponine scrunches her nose at him. "Dammit, I've been trying to get you to try that for ages. I really thought you'd like it." She waves back the waitress who brings out a regular black coffee, the two of them apparently conniving together, as Eponine palms her over a fiver. The waitress tells Grantaire she was sorry to hear about his accident before leaving again.

"We come here a lot." Eponine says, sitting back and taking a sip of her own gross sugar thing. "So, you want to talk about it?"

"About what? The obvious con I've managed to pull off sometime in the last six years? The brain damage? This stupid sling and my raccoon eyes?"

"How are you feeling?"

Grantaire has been known to wax rhapsodic on every twinge of the heart he's experienced, on every play of life, but he can't get the words out. He groans and rests his head down on the table, eventually mumbling "My life is a hideous invention by someone I don't know. Trying to trick me into believing in something I know to be impossible."

Eponine rubs his back, the closest she's come to a hug since he's met her. Well, that may not be true, he knows. "You always were a drama queen." She adds, tentatively, "Has your depression come back?"

Grantaire sits back up. "My what?"

"Ah. You're on that side of six years."

She glances away for a moment, but looks straight at him to say "I suppose someone has to tell you." She pauses again. "When we met, in first year, you were super depressed and super in denial about it."

He doesn't know what to say to that. She doesn't wait for him to respond though.

"But, obviously, you've gotten a lot better. It hasn't really been a problem for a few years. No one told you? Fuck, I'm going to kill Enjolras. Have you two talked at all yet?"

"We've…" Grantaire can't even finish that sentence.

He finishes the rest of his coffee instead, avoiding Eponine's gaze as she adds "Look, I hate talking about this stuff. But, if you need to, I will. And so will everyone, and they'll probably be better at it. Bossuet, or Joly. Any of your friends, really."

Grantaire sits, staring at his empty coffee cup for a while, before eventually he can say "Let's go back to the gallery."

 

Eponine treads lightly around him the rest of the afternoon, talking Grantaire through the business side of the gallery, and laughing at him when he zones out and ceases to hear about market projections and revenue streams, confirming he always does so. She kicks him out of her office after that, promising she'll get him to go through everything one day, so help her, and he feels she's probably been saying that for a while.

He's grinning when his pocket starts buzzing, an unknown number lighting up Enjolras's phone.

"Hello," he answers, tentatively.

"So Courfeyrac, and Combeferre, have informed me it's not OK to leave people alone after a traumatic brain injury. Sorry."

Grantaire can't help smiling even more, his heart growing lighter at the sound of Enjolras's voice.

"It's OK, I'm with Eponine."

"OK. That's good. Are you having a nice time?"

Grantaire laughs at him. He can't help it. Enjolras sounds so awkward talking to him. The sheer absurdity of being married to this man sticks a grin to his face. "Sure. We're braiding each other's hair and talking profit projections. It's great."

"Really?"

"No. She wouldn't let me near the math stuff. Or her hair. How about you? How's your day?"

"I've had better." Enjolras sighs. "We've lost one of our clients. Her husband tells us she's decided to drop the case, but I don't believe it. I want to talk to her myself, but I haven't managed to get through to her. And my contact at the Thenardier corporation isn't responding. I'm worried he's decided to stop cooperating. Also, I'm finding it hard to concentrate. I miss you."

Enjolras just says so, as if affection, and vulnerability, are the easiest things in the world to admit. Like he says it all the time. Luckily, he doesn't wait for Grantaire to respond. "Can Eponine take you home? Or Combeferre's offered to pick you up, or I can leave work early, if you want me to come now-"

"That's fine. Take your time. I'll talk to Eponine about it."

"OK, let me know."

"I hope your day gets better," Grantaire adds.

"Thanks. I'll see you soon."

Grantaire hangs up.

He spends the rest of the day looking at his art, trying to be objective. It's interesting, in a way. Surely most artists would wish to be able to see their work as an outsider would, but he still can't disconnect it from himself. They feel more like things he painted drunk and forgot about, than something truly other.

Though, he's surprised to find, mostly he likes it. It's a strange feeling, and amazingly, it makes him want to paint. He can't remember the last time he's wanted that so strongly.

Eponine comes out to chat with him a few times, but it's clear she does most of the actual work concerning this place. At least that part of his life makes more sense now; he never could have managed something like this on his own.

When he turns around Combeferre is standing by him, and Grantaire is so surprised to see him he lets out a small shriek.

"Hey, Grantaire. Enjolras asked me to stop by."

"Oh crap, I forgot to call him."

"It's fine." Combeferre says, shooting off a text in one hand. "I was in the neighbourhood anyway. How are you?"

Grantaire doesn't even think about it when he answers "Good."

"A few of us are meeting at the Musain, if you feel like going?"

"Sure," The name is vaguely familiar to Grantaire, and that seems like reason enough to go.

Combeferre goes to ask Eponine, who has just finished talking with a patron across the room.

"I've still got some work to do, you go ahead. I'll try to stop by later."

Grantaire waves her goodbye before Combeferre leads the way out of the building.

"I'm parked quite a while a way."

He walks beside Grantaire, sneaking quick glances at him, enough that Grantaire starts to get annoyed.

"My legs are fine, you know. I took most of the impact on my head."

"Oh, that's good. I mean, not the head thing. That's horrible. But I was just thinking about something." Combeferre is still looking at him strangely. "Can I ask you something?"

Grantaire wonders if he'll regret answering "Shoot."

"Do you remember anything yet?"

"Nope." Grantaire says, shortly.

"Oh. Well, when I proposed to my fiancé-"

"Courfeyrac?"

"Yes, Courfeyrac. You don't remember that at all?"

"Should I?"

"Well, not especially. You probably don't even remember proposing yourself, right? But you kind of helped me out with mine. See, Courfeyrac's favourite movie is _Singin' in the Rain_ ,"

"Is this going somewhere?" Grantaire doesn't mean to be rude, but he really can't see why Combeferre's telling him this.

"Yeah, OK. So, in that movie there's a big tap number-"

"I know. I mean, I've seen it. Before my accident."

"Yes, but you didn't know the dance."

"What?"

"About a year ago, you learnt the dance, and then you taught it to me, and then I did it for Courfeyrac, and I proposed, and he said yes."

"That's great."

"Yes, it was, but the point is - Do you think you can remember it?"

"What?"

"The dance."

"I've never learnt it. I mean, you just said that." This is becoming the weirdest conversation Grantaire's ever had, and for once it's not his fault.

"I know. But, just try this out. Your legs really are fine?"

Grantaire nods, afraid of where this is going. He hasn't danced since high school. It sounds like a nice thing he did for Combeferre, but he's surprised he ever agreed to it. There was a reason he stopped dancing.

"OK, so just, follow my movements."

Combeferre starts tapping while they walk, a simple heel ball change Grantaire recognises from his youth. This conversation is already so damn weird, he doesn't see a reason not to try.

Combeferre keeps dancing, Grantaire copying, as he changes the conversation to a detailed account of the astrological events that have occurred over the last six years.

After a while Grantaire glances over to see the huge grin splitting Combeferre's face. From what Grantaire has gathered of the other man, he tends to smile sparingly, so it's enough to make him suddenly uneasy. Combeferre gestures downwards. Combeferre has stopped dancing, but Grantaire is still going, tapping out a rhythm that should be unfamiliar to him.

"Huh."

Now that he's noticed it, Grantaire comes to a stop: he doesn't know the steps, despite the fact he'd clearly been performing them, only a second ago. "How-?"

Combeferre is still grinning at him. "It's fascinating, isn't it? I saw it on the ward a few times. Not this exactly, obviously. Patients with no memory of learning a skill, but who could still perform them. Things like riding a bike, painting, playing an instrument. Anyway, should we get going?"

They've arrived at the car now, and Combeferre holds the door open for him, waiting for Grantaire to get inside. He feels so betrayed by his brain, he doesn't know how to react. He's silent for the drive, though Combeferre chats to him a few times, telling him more about 2014's meteor shower, and Courfeyrac's reaction to his proposal.

When Combeferre's parked the car, he turns to him, concerned. "Are you OK? I didn't mean to break you. Amnesia studies are just a particular interest of mine and-"

"No it's fine. You're right, it was cool. I just hadn't realised how much of my brain is - trapped."

"Hey." Combeferre clicks open his seatbelt so he can face Grantaire properly. "Brains are amazing. They adapt. They heal. Things you think you've lost forever can come back, often when you least expect it. And in terms of quality of life, retrograde amnesia is much easier to adjust to than anterograde, and everyone here is going to help you for as long as you need."

"Thanks." Grantaire's head hurts. He gets out of the car, Combeferre following, and they head into the café.

Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly are there already, and when they come in Courfeyrac gets up,  kissing Grantaire's cheek quickly, before dragging Combeferre to the bar with him, pressing a quick kiss against his lips as he goes.

Grantaire tries not to notice as he sits down next to Enjolras in the booth, keeping a conspicuous distance between them.

"Hey, R. How are you?" Feuilly is the first to speak to him.

He can't tell if that's how people always greet each other, but he's getting tired of the question, regardless.

"Great, thanks." No one's ever expected an honest answer to that question, anyway. "How are you guys?"

"Oh, Enjolras was just telling us a joke."

"No way. Let's hear it."

Enjolras clears his throat before saying, "What do you get when you cross a joke with a rhetorical question?"

 

Grantaire's still groaning when Courfeyrac comes back bearing drinks, Combeferre following with the rest. He sets a ginger beer in front of Grantaire and slides into the spot next to him as he says "Combeferre tells me he's been traumatising you."

Enjolras glares at Combeferre, a look Grantaire never wants to be on the receiving end of. Combeferre only smiles sweetly back at him, and lets Grantaire explain.

"It's fine, my brain is actually the one traumatising me. Combeferre just helped. No I'm kidding. Enjolras." Enjolras's glare has turned deadly, but he looks back to Grantaire after a second, all concern.

"He just showed me I still know how to dance. It's actually kind of comforting, knowing that stuff isn't lost completely. It's still somewhere in my head. I just wish I had it all back by now."

"We just have to be patient."

Something tightens in Grantaire's heart.

"Hey, so, I heard you talking to Jehan the other day." He says, changing the subject.

"What?" Enjolras sounds vaguely panicked, and Grantaire grins at him.

"I didn't catch all of it. Just something about not liking me calling you 'Enjolras.'"

"Oh. That." There's tittering around the table, and Enjolras looks down into his glass, blushing, as he says, “You usually call me Apollo,”

It isn't hard for Grantaire to picture.

“You two really have a thing for terrible pet names. It’s disgusting.” Courfeyrac interjects, grinning broadly. Enjolras blushes even harder at that, and Grantaire wishes he could know what he was remembering.

"You're one to talk," Feuilly adds, "What did you put on the engagement notice? Combeferre, my darling, my angel, my cutie patootie?"

As the others continue their jibes, Grantaire says softly to Enjolras "Do you want me to call you Apollo?"

"It'd be kind of weird, wouldn't it?"

"What's the story behind it?"

"I think you started saying it just to annoy me, actually. I hadn't realised it would ever be something I missed hearing."

Enjolras takes a long drink from his glass to cover up his embarrassment, and Grantaire turns back to the rest of the table, joining the conversation.

Eventually Grantaire catches Enjolras yawning, and decides to call it a night. The two of them are the first to leave, but Enjolras isn't complaining, leaning slightly against Grantaire's good arm, and Grantaire has to lead them outside. The Musain is within walking distance of their apartment, and he's not sure if he's imagining the familiarity of the route.

"Are you still hungry?" Enjolras asks as they get in. They'd ordered some food at the café, but between the five of them it hadn't gone far.

"Not really." he replies.

"How about dessert? We have ice cream-"

"Well, if there's ice-cream…"

Grantaire follows Enjolras into the kitchen, hanging his keys up as he goes. Enjolras has dished out two bowls and set them down on the breakfast bench when he remembers, "Bossuet gave me this to pass on."

"It isn't more memes is it?" Grantaire says, but honestly, he wouldn't have minded them.

Enjolras pulls out a phone instead. "The passcode's 2812," He adds, handing it over. Grantaire gives back Enjolras's phone as he takes his own. In 2011, he was still using a brick phone. He had thought about upgrading, but it hadn't been very high on his list of priorities. He had noticed that nearly everyone was using them now.

"Thanks," He goes back to his ice cream.

"I've got the morning off tomorrow, so I can take you to your doctor's appointment."

"OK."

"Do you want to watch something before bed?"

Grantaire looks over at Enjolras. He doesn't know how he didn't notice it before, but now, under the bright lights of their kitchen, he sees how wrecked Enjolras looks. The circles below his eyes are dark as space.

"You look exhausted."

"No, I'm fine, we could watch an episode or two-"

Grantaire pulls at his hand to examine him closer. "When's the last time you slept?"

"'Taire, I'm fine."

Grantaire glares at him until he answers properly.

Enjolras doesn't meet his eye as he admits, "I kind of have trouble sleeping, when I'm not in my own bed."

"You should have said something." Guilt floods Grantaire. He doesn't think Enjolras would have slept much while he was in the hospital, either. No wonder he looks exhausted.

"It's fine. I really don't mind, I promise. In college I could go weeks without sleeping."

Grantaire stops listening to him, dragging the hand he holds to lead Enjolras to the bedroom. "No. We're going to bed. Go get changed."

He leaves him to brush his teeth, and to panic, spending longer than necessary on each tooth as he stares into the mirror, unseeing, thinking about what a horrible idea this was. Eventually he  shakes himself and rinses out his mouth, splashing some water on his face while he's at it.

When he finally gets back to the bedroom, Enjolras is already curled up in bed, Grantaire noting with curiosity that he chose the opposite side from the one Grantaire usually slept on.

"I can go to the guest room, if you want."

Enjolras starts to sit up. "No-" He says it so quickly Grantaire feels himself blush. "Stay, please?"

"Fine. Yeah, it's fine."

Enjolras slinks back into the covers. Though his eyes are already closed, Grantaire goes back into the bathroom to get changed and replace his sling.

When he comes back, he switches off the light and gently slides himself into bed, trying not to disturb him. Once he's lying down he realises it wouldn't have mattered. He can feel the tension radiating from Enjolras, lying stiff as a log. He ignores it for a few minutes, but when Enjolras doesn't settle down, Grantaire rolls over to face him.

"What is it?"

"What?" His eyes flutter open and his tone is sleepy, but Grantaire isn't fooled by him.

"I feel like I'm sleeping next to a statue. What's wrong?"

"Nothing-"

"Enjolras," Grantaire wishes he could stare him out again, but the moonlight coming in from the windows isn't strong enough for it to be effective. Still, eventually Enjolras sighs.

"I guess I'm not used to sleeping this far away from you, that's all."

Of course Enjolras would be a cuddler. Grantaire sighs.

"But it's fine. Seriously, 'Taire-"

Grantaire can't do much with his sling in the way, but he carefully shifts his arm over, and pulls Enjolras over to him. He's never been one to deny himself. If Enjolras wants to cuddle him, Grantaire isn't going to be the one to stop him.

"Is this OK?"

"Yeah," Enjolras whispers. He can feel him start to relax, his head settling against his chest, the warmth of his cheeks sinking down into his heart.

Enjolras's breathing has evened out, and Grantaire thinks he's asleep when Grantaire hears a mumbled "'Taire?"

"Yeah?" Grantaire whispers back.

"You know I'm here if you need me, right? You know we're in this together? I know I haven't been very good at explaining things-" Enjolras is starting to sit up, so Grantaire cuts him off.

"Just go to sleep, Apollo." He pauses, then adds, even softer "Everything's fine."

"Yeah," Enjolras murmurs back, relaxing once more against Grantaire's chest.

It isn't long before Grantaire is asleep as well.

 

 

Grantaire wakes with the sun, streaming in through the double windows of their bedroom. His arm has gone dead, from where Enjolras still sleeps on it, tucked against Grantaire's side, and he carefully pulls it free and gets up, afraid to wake him. Enjolras doesn't budge though, dead to the world, not even when Eros settles into Grantaire's vacated spot. Grantaire stares at the two of them for only a moment, before he tiptoes to the bathroom, still working at getting circulation back into his arm.

After showering, he makes coffee. He makes a cup for Enjolras too, without thinking about it, despite not knowing when he'll be up. He clearly needed to rest. He carries them both back to the bedroom and sets them down on the bedside table before sliding back into bed. The two of them are still fast asleep, and he settles back against his cushion and picks up his phone to pass the time. Before he can think about it, he goes into his conversation log, and selects Enjolras's name.

The last few texts are from the day of the protest: Enjolras getting increasingly worried by Grantaire's lack of response. He scrolls up quickly, to a more normal week for them, and is unsurprised to find he's a lot more verbose than Enjolras.

He's amazed by the domesticity of it. The quiet softness, the easy affection, and the teasing. There's a lot of that. At one point he comes across about twenty texts he's sent, all within the span of fifteen minutes and all saying 'Source,' followed by a 'Good speech though.'

He's two months deep into the conversation, when a shrill beeping causes him to shoot straight up, his heart racing. He feels caught out, as though he's been spying, ludicrous as that is. Enjolras groans and rolls over to hit the alarm. Grantaire glances at the clock. They have to be at the hospital in an hour, but by the looks of it, it's going to take some effort to get Enjolras out of bed. He's managed to wrap the blankets around himself, cocooning himself and Eros within them, and fast asleep once more.

The coffee's gone cold by this point, so Grantaire goes to make a fresh cup, bringing it back to Enjolras. He has to set it down so he can gently shake Enjolras's shoulder, and he really misses being able to use both his arms.

"Hey, sleeping beauty."

Enjolras's eyes flutter open, like the actual Aurora, and Grantaire has to turn away. The fact he's married a Disney Princess shouldn't actually be surprising to him by this point.

"Come back to bed." Enjolras tries to grab him and pull him back in. Unfortunately his aim is off, and he hits Grantaire's bad arm, causing him to gasp before he can stifle it. That's enough to wake Enjolras up properly.

"Sorry, sorry. Are you OK?"  
Enjolras has moved closer to fuss over him, and Grantaire quickly backs away.

"I'm fine, I made coffee." He hands over Enjolras's cup, who takes it and inhales it. Grantaire watches, amazed.

"Thank you. Are you sure you're OK?"

"You barely touched me. It's fine."

Enjolras smiles at him, his hair lit up by the sun still streaming into the room, and Grantaire gasps again at the sight.

"You are hurt. Let me see." Enjolras scoots closer, but Grantaire stands up before he can touch him.

"There's nothing to see, promise. I have an appointment today, anyway."

"Oh, shit, yeah." Enjolras glances at his alarm clock. "Crap, is that the time?"

He shoots out of bed, and off to the bathroom. Despite his concern a second ago, Enjolras spends an inordinate amount of time showering. Grantaire gets dressed while he's waiting, and makes more coffee, thinking Enjolras will probably need it.

 

They make it on time to the appointment, but are stuck in the waiting room for an eternity, before he's finally able to see his doctor. He gets his stitches taken out, and is allowed to take his sling off, though he's told not to lift anything for at least another month, with such sternness Grantaire feels a shiver go down his spine. It's a relief to be free to move it again, though, and his thoughts fly to ideas of painting, to his surprise.

"What about his brain?" Enjolras asks, from where he hovers by the wall, uneasiness radiating off him. Grantaire remembers he doesn't like doctors.

"I'm going to order another MRI, but from your exam you seem to be healing very nicely. Beyond what we would have expected, honestly."

"And the memories?"

"At this stage, I wouldn't be worrying about them-"

"You said they should have come back by now-" Enjolras interjects.

"You have to remember the brain is incredibly complex, and unique to each person. It's true, in most cases, we would have expected to see some memories recovered, but there's no reason to worry about that yet. The MRI should tell us more."

Enjolras glares at her, but stays silent, leaving Grantaire to talk over his concerns and questions. He says goodbye to his doctor, while Enjolras just ignores her, Grantaire collecting his results and test requests on the way out. They set up an appointment with the Radiographer, and wait another eternity in that waiting room, before they can finally leave. Enjolras pauses when they get back to the car, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. He glances down at the car clock. "That went really well."

Grantaire stares at him.

"What?" Enjolras asks, defensive.

"Did you miss the part where she said the memories should have returned by now?"

"She said you're healing excellently!"

"Yeah, except for the brain part." Grantaire sighs. He doesn't even know why he's fighting Enjolras on this. The appointment had gone better than he expected.

"She said there's no reason to worry." Enjolras stares at him, waiting, still tapping his fingers.

"What is it?"

"I have to drop by the office really quickly to see a client. Do you want to come with me? I won't be very long. Or I can drop you somewhere else."

"You can just drop me home."

"You're sure?"

"The doctor said it's fine."

"I remember, I just-"

Enjolras sighs and turns on the engine, the radio coming on automatically as the car starts.

When they get home, Enjolras walks him inside. He kisses Grantaire's cheek before he leaves again.

Grantaire locks the door behind him, leaning against it for a second, before heading to the kitchen and sinking down against the counter.

He's hardly even talked to Enjolras. He doesn't know him. A few conversations and some cuddling shouldn't have been enough to send his heart into a flutter at his touch.

He needs to get a grip on himself. Despite being an incredibly bad idea, it's also just embarrassing.

Eventually his heart stops racing and he can get up again.

He makes some toast, and wanders about the apartment, trying to decide what to do with his afternoon. Most of him wants to keep reading through his text conversations, but it still feels wrong somehow. Like reading someone else's diary. He switches on the television instead, figuring he has a lot of T.V. to catch up on anyway.

He ends up watching the news. He used to hate watching it, a reminder of how much the world was falling apart, and things definitely haven't gotten better in the last six years. Actually, they seem to be spiralling into dystopic proportions, but watching doesn't fill him with the same despair it used to. Plus, it's pretty interesting, seeing how much the world has changed, and what things have stayed the same.

It's a pretty slow news day. He's watching a segment on the rise of microbreweries, when the newscaster mentions the trend increasing over the last four years, and something in those words makes his senses blur and his stomach drop.

He switches off the T.V. and just sits for a moment, bent over and biting his nails.

He knows he's missing something. It could be a forgotten memory, trying to make itself known,  but he doesn't know what he's supposed to do about it.

He gets up, pacing a bit and running his fingers through his hair.

He goes to get the book Enjolras had made for him, thinking it might help him remember whatever it is his brain's latched onto.

Enjolras, the picture of thoroughness, has included an entry on himself, though it's the shortest of them all, and it's there under the picture of him, smiling and distracted and perfect, that Grantaire sees it. Not a forgotten memory, but a connection he had missed.

 

_Enjolras - husband_

_Together four years. Married December 28th, 2015._

_Met at: University, at the student club 'Les Amis' (see page 18), 2011._

 

It could be nothing, but suddenly Grantaire can't breathe.

He had been right when he had said Enjolras didn't know him. He doesn't even know himself, what's left of the person he remembers and the one Enjolras does.

He decides what to do, not pausing to think, throwing on his shoes and jacket and leaving the house.

His feet take him back to the Musain.

When he arrives he sinks down onto a seat at the bar and gets the attention of the server to order a drink.

Unfortunately, she seems to recognise him.

“Sorry R, you’re on our Refusal of Service List. Voluntarily.”

“Oh.” Grantaire is really getting tired of the past version of himself. “I guess I’ll just go somewhere else.” He hesitates before leaving, caught searching her face for any sense of recognition.

Before he can go she slides a drink over to him.

“I heard about what happened…” She looks at him like she wants to say something, but eventually just sighs and goes back to wiping dishes. Grantaire focuses on his drink, not yet taking a sip but staring into its amber depths.

He is still hunched over it when Enjolras shows up ten minutes later.

“What are you doing here?”

“Louison called me.” He says, gesturing to the girl who served him. Traitor.

“Great. Fine. Have a seat.” Grantaire kicks out the barstool beside him and returns his gaze to his drink.

“R-”

“Stop."

He hates the judgement he can hear in Enjolras's voice. He doesn't look over at him, but says, sounding surer than he feels, "Enjolras, I need to do this."

Enjolras sighs and clenches his hands around the bar, leaning against it. “Fine. OK. Can we get a bottle to go?” He calls out to Louison, who is hovering nearby.

“What?” Grantaire yelps.

“I meant it when I said we’re in this together. I’m not allowed to drink in public.”

Grantaire tries to keep the shock off his face as he processes what Enjolras means. He says out loud, “Is that your rule or theirs?”

“It’s best for everybody.” Enjolras replies. He takes out his credit card and hands it over as Louison passes him the bottle.

Enjolras gets up from his seat and stares at him. "Well, are you coming?"

"Sure. Why the fuck not?"

Grantaire follows him outside.

When they get back to the apartment Enjolras heads for the kitchen, Grantaire trailing behind him, grabbing a couple of glasses before continuing in to the living room and setting them down on the table with a clunk, alongside the bottle he'd bought.

He sits down in one of the chairs and Grantaire goes to the other side, sitting opposite him while Enjolras pours out the first shot.

"So," Enjolras starts to say, as Grantaire pulls his own drink closer, "Why don't we make this interesting?"

"How so?" Grantaire humours him. For himself, drinking has always been interesting enough on its own.

"You guess something about your life. If you're right, you drink. If you're wrong I do."

"OK…" He thinks about where to start, and means it mostly as a joke when he says "You only married me for my money."

Enjolras picks up his glass, knocks back the shot and slams the glass back on the table with a thud, faster than Grantaire could have believed. Grantaire shifts uncomfortably.

"Uck-" Enjolras says, but he's already pouring himself another. "Wrong, obviously. Do you want to talk about finances?"

"Can we wait until I'm drunker?" Grantaire groans.

"You brought it up."

"OK I'm sorry, that wasn't fair. I was joking, and obviously anyone who's known you for five minutes would know you're too bloody virtuous for that."  Grantaire needs to stop before he truly embarrasses himself. He doesn't even have the excuse of alcohol, not even having taken a sip yet, and wonders if Enjolras designed this whole thing for this purpose.

As a way to fix that and to distract his thoughts he makes his next guess, certain to pick one he can't get wrong.

"OK. Let's see." It's harder than he thought it could be to come up with something: even now, nothing in his life makes sense enough to make a theory around it.

He picks something Combeferre let slip already, instead. "I proposed."

"If you can call it that." Enjolras says, gesturing for him to take a drink. "We kind of eloped. It was right after Christmas, and most of our friends were out of town. We just didn't want to wait anymore."

That's easy for Grantaire to imagine. He knocks back the shot.

"Combeferre was the only one around so he was our witness. Courfeyrac still hasn't forgiven me for that."

"I had noticed."

"We didn't even take a picture. Maybe if we had I could show you, and it would have helped with-"

Grantaire tries urgently to think of his next guess.

"We've never taken a holiday together."

He's seen how much Enjolras works, and as they've only been married two years and Enjolras just said they stayed in Paris for the Christmas holiday, it seems a fairly safe guess, but Enjolras throws his drink back again, less forceful this time.

"Uck," he says again, making a disgusted face. "I do have photos for this one! Hold on."

Enjolras jumps out of his seat and goes into the office, Grantaire waiting impatiently, drumming his fingers against the table.

"I should have brought these out when you first got home." Enjolras says, carrying a stack of photo albums, teetering slightly.

They're all organised by place and date, and Enjolras pulls out the newest: a trip they had taken to Australia six months before. He talks him through it, casting glances at Grantaire at every page to see if he recognises anything, and Grantaire tries his hardest, but it's still foreign to him. They're mostly pictures of Enjolras, anyway, Grantaire assumes he took the shots, but there are a few of them together that make his heart squeeze. Enjolras looks good on the beach, in the sunshine, but that doesn't surprise him.

"Weren't we playing a game?" Grantaire says, as Enjolras pulls out the next album.

"Right. Yes. We can look through later, I guess."

He sits back in front of his glass from where he'd been leaned over Grantaire's shoulder, and pours them both another shot, a smaller amount this time.

"Next guess." He gestures to Grantaire.

"Your parents hate me."

Enjolras groans and goes to take another drink. "You're really bad at this."

"You know, I'm not sure that one's not true. Maybe they've just never told you."

"They don't hate you. They're not overly fond of you, ssure, and I'm a bit of a disappointment, but they like you just fine. We all get on OK, when we have to."

Grantaire's tired of losing this game, and from the looks of things, Enjolras doesn't seem to be too good at winning. There's already a fogginess to his eyes, and an unsteadiness to his movements.

Enjolras goes to pour another drink, lining the glass up carefully before he pours, deliberate and slow. He looks up at Grantaire when he's done.

"I want a turn."

Grantaire gestures for him to go ahead.

"You still love me."

Grantaire looks down at the table, then back at Enjolras, then back at the table.

"I don't remember you," he has to mumble. Still, he pushes the glass closer to him. "Take the shot."

Enjolras doesn't, though.

He surges forward, knocking aside his chair and putting one knee on the table to grab at Grantaire's collar, pulling him in so their lips meet.

It's surprisingly gentle, for all that force. Gentle, but determined, as Enjolras deepens the kiss and Grantaire goes willingly, falling into it and falling apart.

It's the type of fairytale kiss that should have made him remember everything, and though he _knows_ exactly how to move his lips in rhythm with Enjolras, knows he has missed this and has been missing this his whole life, he doesn't _remember._

He doesn't know how long it lasts, but eventually they pull apart.

Grantaire only now notices how awkward of a position Enjolras is in, one knee still on the table, hunched over and holding himself up with one hand, the other still clutching at Grantaire's collar. He stands up, grabbing Enjolras's hand and guiding him off the table until they're standing, too, too close.

Enjolras leans in again, and Grantaire lets him, for only a moment before pulling away again.

"You're drunk."

Enjolras hugs him, his head fitting against his shoulder.

"Only because you're such an idiot." He bites back, and then adds an actual bite against Grantaire's neck, soothing it with a kiss. "Ugh, I've missed you so much." Enjolras lets his head rest against Grantaire's forehead.

Grantaire can't help but feel a twinge at that. He still isn't the 'him' Enjolras wants him to be. He's not the person Enjolras misses, and he needs him to know it, but Enjolras cuts him off before he can say a word.

"No - Don't start. I can tell what you're going to say." Enjolras pulls back, his hands coming to rest against his chest. "You're still the same person you were before. You're still you. And I'm still me. We're still the same people who loved each other."

Grantaire can't speak. He lets his forehead rest against Enjolras's once more, content not to say anything, for a while.

They stand like that, silent, and full, before Enjolras breaks the moment, slipping on the bare floorboards.

"Oops."

He's clearly drunker than Grantaire thought. He's not surprised Enjolras is such a lightweight.

"Let's go to bed." He says, linking their hands.

"'kay."

"I mean to sleep."

"I know, gosh." Enjolras kisses him softly once more, before letting Grantaire lead them to the bedroom.

 

 

The sun cutting through the windows wakes Grantaire once more, the next day. He doesn't mind. They'd gone to bed early last night, and today they have nowhere to be, and he's content just to lie next to Enjolras, their legs tangled together, and just stay there.

Eventually he gets up; Enjolras doesn't seem liable to go anywhere anytime soon, and Grantaire needs food. He realises they'd forgotten to eat last night, which probably wasn't the smartest idea. He makes some toast, and lays some  paracetamol and a glass of water out for Enjolras, before going to have a shower.  It's nice not to have to worry about his sling anymore, and he stretches his arms out, lightly, enjoying the movement.

He hears the door click open, and peaks around the curtain to see Enjolras.

"Good morning,"

"Ack!"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." Enjolras says, grabbing his toothbrush.

Grantaire shuts off the taps, and reaches for his towel, wrapping it around his waist.

"You didn't scare me. How are you feeling?"

"Good." Enjolras beams at him, then returns to brushing his teeth. "I mean, tired. And my head hurts. But really, really good." He says around his toothbrush. Enjolras rinses, then asks, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm good, too." He grins.

"What do you want to do today?"

"Do you know, I can think of a few things."

Grantaire doesn't miss the way Enjolras's gaze drops down as he gets out of the shower. Enjolras is reaching for him before both of his feet reach the floor.

"Can I?"

Grantaire answers by pulling Enjolras closer, trying not to feel self conscious about his body. He knows Enjolras must have seen him naked a thousand times already. Still, he isn't exactly at his best. A lot of his bruises still haven't faded, and he hasn't shaved since before his accident, unwilling to risk using his razor without his good arm.

Enjolras doesn't hesitate though, his eyes falling closed as he leans in to kiss Grantaire good morning. They kiss for a while, Grantaire relieved he hasn't changed his mind about them. Eventually, he pulls back enough to comment "This doesn't seem fair, I'm practically naked, and you're still fully clothed."

"You've probably noticed how much I care about fairness."

"Oh, really?" Grantaire feigns surprise, already pulling at Enjolras's shirt.

They move to the bedroom, nearly tripping on the way, Grantaire's towel miraculously still in place as he manages to remove Enjolras's shirt, and steer him onto the bed.

"Wait," Enjolras breathes.

Grantaire sits back, waiting, while Enjolras sits up, something clouding his face that Grantaire can't recognise.

"I have to tell you something."

Grantaire's thoughts immediately fly to the worst: that Enjolras has changed his mind, that he knows he isn't the person he loves, that he no longer wants him. He wishes he could have been dressed for this conversation.

"The day of the accident, we had a fight. If you had your memories back, you'd probably still be mad at me. You wouldn't want to do this-"

That isn't what he's expecting, and Grantaire can't help the laugh that escapes him in relief. Enjolras glares at him, and he can't believe he ever found that look intimidating.

"What was the fight about?" Grantaire asks, though he doubts he'll care.

"It was so stupid." Enjolras hides his face behind his hands. "I was stressed about the protest, and you always get nervous before them, and I was mad about you unstacking the dishwasher, and then we both started yelling. We both said things we didn't mean. Well, I didn't mean them, but I shouldn't have said anything in the first place, and we went to the protest still mad at each other, and I'm so sorry."

"OK. I forgive you," Grantaire reaches for him once more, but Enjolras dodges out of reach.

"But if you don't remember, how can you forgive me? And what if you really would still be angry and not want to…?" Enjolras gestures at the space between them.

Grantaire groans and lies back on the bed, before sitting up again, pulling Enjolras closer to him.

"Enjolras. I think I can say, with absolute certainty, that there isn't a version of me in the universe that wouldn't be into this." He kisses his cheek, lightly, delighted by the blush it raises in Enjolras's cheeks.

"But-"

"I'm also sure the fight was just as much my fault." Part of him thinks probably more than half, but then he's seen Enjolras get angry, once at the nurses in the hospital, and then on the phone to someone while he thought he was sleeping, and he knows Enjolras is just as good at fighting. 

"Do you forgive me?" Grantaire asks.

"Of course. It was so stupid."

"Exactly. And I'm sure I would have forgiven you by now too, if I remembered. But if you want to wait until the memories come back to touch me-"

Grantaire gives his best smoulder, but it only makes Enjolras laugh, which is better than him worrying, at least.

"You're sure?"

"Yes!" Grantaire lets out a noise of frustration, that Enjolras catches with his lips. He seems to have finally taken Grantaire at his word, because there's nothing hesitant in his kiss. He kisses like he fights: passionate and dirty, trying to take everything Grantaire is willing to give, and Grantaire gives a lot, trying to match him, the two of them moving together, as though they've done this a thousand times before. It's strange, being with someone who knows him already. Enjolras knows exactly where to place his tongue, where to lick and bite and grasp. Grantaire feels at a disadvantage, but Enjolras doesn't seem to be wanting, lighting up as Grantaire slides a hand over his chest.

They go slowly, the desperation slipping away to something softer.

 

After, Grantaire strokes Enjolras's arm absently where it's draped over him.

If he hadn't been so much in his head, he could have had this the whole time. Grantaire wonders how much of his life he's lost by letting his thoughts throttle him. He isn't going to do that anymore.

"Can I ask you something?"

Enjolras sits up enough to look at him.

"Of course."

"Four years ago I quit drinking. And four years ago we got together…"

"I know what you're thinking. It wasn't like that."

Enjolras would say that, but how could he know. For all he knows, he's never seen Grantaire at his worst. Has never known the person he really is.

"We dated before then."

That's definitely not what he was expecting, and it's enough to stop Grantaire in his tracks. It's almost unbelievable. Given Enjolras's thoroughness, just the fact he hadn't mentioned it before is hard to believe. There should have been some hint. He should have told him before. Put it in his book.

"You've really been worrying about this, haven't you?" Enjolras sighs and stretches out, turning to look at him properly. "We dated for four months, at the end of your first year at university. Before you dumped me."

Enjolras is looking him in the eye as he says it, but it's still hard to believe, especially as Enjolras seems to find it hard to say.

"Now I know you're lying-"

"Yeah, I couldn't believe it at the time, either. That was my first real relationship, and I wasn't the... best boyfriend. I thought nothing in my life would have to change. It hit me like a fist when you actually broke up with me. That was a - not so great time. For either of us."

At the look on his face Grantaire can't help but pull Enjolras back closer to him. They're both quiet for a moment before Enjolras speaks again, his head still resting against Grantaire's chest so that Grantaire has to strain to hear him.

"There are some things I hope you never have to remember."

Grantaire considers that. "I think you might be right, there." There's plenty of things he still remembers that he'd rather forget. He imagines what it must have been like, though, to fall in love, and can't help adding. "I think it was worth it, though."

"What?"

"The bad stuff, for this." Grantaire places a kiss a top Enjolras's forehead.

He never thought he'd get out of the hole he'd been in. He still doesn't know how he managed it, and he hopes one day he remembers, but he's done worrying about it, for now. He's just going to appreciate that it's happened, and do his best not to fuck it all up.

Grantaire shifts over, and pulls Enjolras in, losing himself in his kiss.

 

 

Later, Grantaire and Enjolras sit curled up on the couch, a documentary playing. Every so often Enjolras will brush his hand over Grantaire's leg, and every time it will still send a thrill through his body.

They hear the front door click open, and someone charging along the hall, just stopping in time at the entryway to the living room. Bossuet flops into the room.

"R! I forgot to tell you!"

Footsteps continue in the hallway, as Grantaire turns to Enjolras. "Does every one of our friends have a key to our place?"

"I don't know how." Enjolras says back, but he can't seem to inject any annoyance into his tone, his lips quirked into a smile.

"Did I interrupt something?"

Bossuet finally notices the scene in front of him, as Musichetta and Joly follow him into the room, carrying popcorn and snacks.

"Would it matter?" Grantaire asks, seriously.

"No!" Joly and Musichetta chime from behind, as Bossuet tells him, "Right, I forgot to tell you, there's a new Star Wars movie out!!"

He's already fiddling with the television, DVD in hand.

"You're kidding?"

"Nope! And we're gonna watch it, I already texted the others."

"That's awesome! Let's do this," Grantaire grins, settling in closer to Enjolras on the couch. He has to make room for their friends, after all.

It takes another twenty minutes for everyone to get there, and another thirty for Bossuet to figure out how to get the T.V. to work.

Grantaire doesn't mind, sitting cuddled up with his husband, content to wait, as his friends fill the room with advice and jokes.

After all, it's not a bad life.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed, as I'm thinking of writing a sequel if people are interested xx
> 
> So, I started this when I was first diagnosed, and couldn't stop thinking about how nice it would be to wake up and just not feel anxious. That was well over a year ago now (yes, I am that slow a writer) and even though that's not how it works in real life, and I still have a long way to go, I'm in a much better place now, and kicking myself over how long it took me to get help. So, I just had to say, if anyone reading this is hesitating over seeking help over a mental health issue, I highly encourage you to do so, even if you've been making excuses for not going, or if you've been struggling a while, and the system is failing you, please don't give up, as things can get better, I promise. I'm on tumblr (now [ here ](https://pollywhittacker.tumblr.com/)) if anyone needs to talk. 
> 
> Sorry about the life story. And I'm doubly sorry for the fade to black. Thanks for reading! <3


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